A Deeper Shade of Blue
by Hugo V
Summary: With Lake Silencio on the horizon, the TARDIS begins behaving oddly. The Doctor wishes that he didn't know why. *Slight spoilers for Impossible Astronaut* Just a quick one-shot, hope you read/comment.


** Authors Note: Just a little something I thought up, hope you like it!**

**I do not own Doctor Who or any of its affiliates.**

The bow tied, wild haired man spun pirouettes around his ships center console, frequently slapping a hand down to pull or prod at various attachments; most of them were strange, like a mustard and ketchup dispenser or shower nozzle. On one side was even a typewriter.

Never before in his seven hundred years of traveling did the Doctor think – and he though quite often – that his type-forty TARDIS would ever truly become decrepit. She was a wonder, a marvel of both organic and inorganic technology, _ageless,_ and yet-

-pain.

The Time Lord sensed symbiotic fading, like holding hands with a ghost or someone about to die. He quickly dismissed the thought as soon as it had come, but in its wake was an irreparable scratch. It'd been so long, so, so long since he'd seen Earth. Almost two hundred years the Doctor had been running across the galaxy, stirring havoc (that was always cleaned up, he'd have you know) and generally sharing a laugh.

His laughs were not instinctual, but purposeful. A good chuckle in the right place made everything seem chipper, even if on the inside the seed of fear had spread its roots.

"Lake Silencio," he'd say when first starting out, "not for a little while yet." Happiness could be found in the Doctor's voice.

"Lake Silencio ," he'd say a hundred years later, "not quite there." A shade of longing was present – the candle of hope.

"Lake Silencio." He'd say before bidding a final farewell to a few choice people, none of whom truly knew the pain inside.

There were thousands of instances he could recount off of the top of his head when he gladly put his life in danger, most often to save others, sometimes without even thinking first. This was different, this was a certainty.

"Give me," he'd yell merrily to the screen in front of his face, "the coordinates to Yael-Three!" And off they'd go, the TARDIS and the Doctor, gone to explore other worlds and meet new, brave people.

He remembered something the soul of his ship had told him centuries ago, when he was young and incessantly excited. "I was a museum piece when you were just a boy – I stole _you._" She had no idea how right she was; it made the Doctor angry.

What lives could he have lived if not this one? What would've become of his home planet? Familiar images of Daleks, Sontarans, Cybermen, Slitheen, Judoon, Axons, Zygons, Eight-legs and countless enemies passed through his head; _that _would have happened, he told himself, _without _me.

And now, on top of every befuddled emotion climbing to reach the top was this, his TARDIS, his one true constant, his touchstone; the wood outside had begun to warp, which greatly surprised the Doctor seeing that it wasn't truly wood at all. It was her way of telling him, he knew at heart.

Hairline fractures grew very slowly in hard to reach places. Some healed, most stayed put. Acknowledgement stayed under lock and key in the dark recesses of his mind; the Time Lord was very good at forgetting things, he had to be.

Occasionally, when they were alone together, the Doctor would slide his cheek down to the humming metal and sing an old Gallifreyan lullaby, maybe talk about an adventure they had shared. It must've been over one thousand, five hundred years old, so ancient that sentient type-hundreds were made before the Time War's fire consumed everything.

Unlike most times, there was no quick fix; the TARDIS knew he was going to die and, in a very poignant way, the ship chose to go down with its captain.

The bow tied, wild haired man spun pirouettes around his ships center console, frequently slapping a hand down to pull or prod at various attachments; most of them were strange, like a mustard and ketchup dispenser or shower nozzle.

On one side was even a typewriter.

With dusty Utah just outside the twin doors, he sat himself down and began to write.

**THE END**

**Please comment, its not mandatory but I'd love it if you would. Stick around for, "Triumph of the Could've-Been King." Coming soon. ;)**


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